


wisteria trees

by graveyardroses



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Happy Birthday, Jonathan Sims - Freeform, M/M, Martin Blackwood - Freeform, Other, Tim Stoker - Freeform, jmart, jonmartin, rated t for the murder weapon teakettle, written as a birthday gift for allenabeille
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26615452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graveyardroses/pseuds/graveyardroses
Summary: "Is this thing on?"a familiar voice whispers through the speakers, the faint buzz of rolling tape in the background."Don’t know how Jon uses these. Anyway, if this is recording, then - well, yeah.Wisteria trees, a poem by Martin K. Blackwood."or: tapes with poetry on them look nearly the same as empty ones.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	wisteria trees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allenabeille](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allenabeille/gifts).



The archives are cold. The kind of cold that can’t be fixed by blankets and oversized sweaters.

the radiators are off, and the only source of warmth is a lukewarm cup of black coffee, ring-staining old papers with the bottom.

It hasn’t been dusted in ages. It’s been a year, and Jon hasn’t yet. he carefully swipes the dust off the surface, and it sprinkles to the ground, golden in the lamplight. the tape recorder whirrs as he presses record. a light blinks on. 

the wheels spin slowly.

“Statement of Kingston Merill regarding an incident of supernatural activity near oxford. Original statement given the ninth of october, 2004. Audio recording of Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus institute, London. 

Statement-”

_Is this thing on?_

a familiar voice whispers through the speakers, the faint buzz of rolling tape in the background. 

_Don’t know how Jon uses these. Anyway, if this is recording, then - well, yeah._

_[faint rustles]_

_Wisteria trees, a poem by Martin K. Blackwood._

If Jon was less nosy he might have clicked it off, given the tape back without a word, forgot this ever happened, plugged an empty tape into the speakers.

He lowers the volume and cradles the tape closer to his ear. the motion is automatic, but still it surprises him, the closeness.

_It begins with a lie._

_It always begins with a lie, doesn’t it? careful smiles, words written._

_no, don’t check my records,_

_because i don’t have them, and your smile is warm, and i’m tired._

_i would say i wasn’t useless, but to say words_

_you have to believe them, don’t you? to believe something_

_you have to know it, don’t you?_

_Yeah. I - couldn’t find anything else for this poem. Yeah._

_It’s weird recording these. Almost like i’m talking to someone? Someone real. I don’t want a rumor going around that i’m insane. Jon already… thinks what he thinks. I’m not great at repressing emotions for a long period of time. Especially not - whatever this is. But i didn’t come to vent about my stupid crush on him._

_Anyway._

The tape clicks off. 

Jon sits there for a moment, unmoving. he adjusts his glasses, again and again. the wire is cold to the touch.

He rises from the chair, bracing himself against the wall, leather shoes echoing across the floor. the stairs creak, bending slightly under his weight. His hair is a mess and for all reason, he should stop and turn around. He should put the tape back where it sat before, not clutched in his hand, trembling.

He does not. 

The corridors aren’t empty. Tim stands in the corner, scrolling through social media. Sasha - well, she isn’t around anymore. 

“Boss? You look like shit. Are you okay?”

He does not speak. He walks slowly through the halls. He nods. 

Tim doesn’t say anything else. 

He walks further into the archives. The walls look the same here - honey-colored plaster and scratched paint. The doors, however, don’t. 

_Storage room three,_ the sign reads. And underneath, in blue scrawled marker:

_Jane prentiss, if you’re there, I have a teakettle perfectly suited for murder._

He knocks on the door. two taps, then a third. 

Silence. 

There’s no one there. 

_Shit,_ he thinks. _maybe this was all a waste of time, i mean, it was a joke, right? a joke. no. martin couldn’t - no. martin couldn’t feel the same._ He turns around to head back downstairs, when a muffled voice comes from behind the door.

“Tim, this is _not_ the time to show me a meme i’m trying to get some work - Oh. hi, Jon.” His gaze drifts towards the unmarked tape. “Do you - do you need help with a statement or something?

Jon tries to speak but stutters through the beginnings of sentences. “You -”

Realization dawns on Martin’s face. 

“Uh. Please tell me it’s a statement.”

“Not a statement.”

“Ah.”

Martin looks like he wants to get up and run. Jon can see he’s planning every possible escape route. how to run away from here. 

“Wait - please don’t. don’t go,” Jon mutters. he hesitates. Martin’s eyes focus on the possible exit routes.

“Look, you weren’t - you weren’t supposed to hear that. It’s fine. I’ll just stay away from everyone and quit if i have to! everything’s fine. everything’s great.” 

“Martin-”

“No. Look. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

Jon sighs, and leans against the wall, slipping to the ground. 

“Can I - can i kiss you.”

Martin stammers, shaking his hands slightly, unbelieving - but that isn’t going to stop him.

“Please.”

Their lips are chapped and they’re both a mess, but that doesn’t matter. because at least for one moment - this moment - everything is okay.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
